


Death of Cold

by darkrabbit



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 06:33:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrabbit/pseuds/darkrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tenth Doctor and the Duplicate discuss Life and her fickle twin, Love after Rose's death on Pete's World. Life decides to be a lady. But where is Love in the deal? Wilfred Mott knows. Wilfred Mott has seen her laughing in old eyes. MPREG</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You know, you’re going to catch your death of cold like that… ” said the Tenth incarnation of the Doctor, folding his hands behind his back.

The Other, as he had taken to calling himself, languidly withdrew his fingers – they were just as long and pretty as the proper Time Lord’s, thank you- from the cool, brisk water of the TARDIS swimming pool and played them over one of the larger pieces of indigo shale that formed the poolside.

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” he bit back sharply, a bit out of habit, a bit out of shameless angst at the constant honest demise of his good mood.

To think that He’d just had to come in and spoil his swim…

“Don’t be that way. You know it wasn’t my fault, erm, our fault. Or Rose’s. Stop blaming ourself for nature’s way, would you? It’s becoming a bit distracting, up here!”

The Doctor tapped His temple; said it so easily like He’d been rehearsing… and of course the Other knew He had…

A tut from the perturbed man in the pool; the soreness of this subject was not going to be antique or forgotten any time soon.

“Stop referring to us as us and –I- may consider retiring to the parlour near the kitchen… that is, if that particular parlour is still –near- the kitchen.”

Strange, the Doctor’s sudden, maddeningly understanding quirk of the lip seemed to resonate through the TARDIS corridors like a promise. The Other found himself wondering at it, musing, sifting through layers of dust in his mind as he would have done in the months before, when he’d still been Him.

“Are you in heat, or something? You’re being awfully accommodating, -Doctor-.”

The Other felt his own special something, that long and hard and narrow something that was only his, tighten, squirm, coil and boil, flinch and perk like legions of angels trying to stick far too many camels through a needle. And it was –his- needle. He’d always been good at sewing, but how the Doctor could be acting this way now was beyond him. Wasn’t –he- the one with the horrendous part-human gift of oh so generous libido? 

Worse, was the bonafide original doing what he thought he was doing?

“Well, the facts are what they are, after all. A body has needs, no matter what way you peel your banana.”

How could He remain so calm, after saying something like that? The Other was flabbergasted at his full Time Lord self’s sudden descent into sexual innuendo. Had the old dot finally gone senile? To his horror, he found then that he quite wanted to step out of the water, despite the harrowsome fact that his signature ripened cluster of physical accoutrement would be upturned, dangling like ready rockets in the air, always inconsiderately seeking venture toward temporary housing in erm… conjugal orbit.

Why was he thinking about such things? Damn them both, the human woman who’d made them better and the full Gallifreyan he’d been in the time before the Hand. Course, why was he bothering to think of it that way? Even before they’d become separate people, the Doctor had still not been a pure blooded Loomling… his mother had been human. Well, not really. That rumour had been just a joke he’d used to secure an ID at the observatory that night with Grace.

“Mmm. Your mother was Donna, technically,” said the Doctor as he sat down on the edge of the pool beside the Other, not bothering to take any of his clothing off as the pool water soaked into his shoes, his socks, his pants, the pockets of the long long coat that Janis had given him; the coat that, although it did a kind of comic, Indie justice to his younger, older yet still so thin body, no longer quite fit.

Perhaps… perhaps it was time for a change... he wasn’t going to be Ten much longer, anyhow.

“And my mother was, quite frankly, not Donna at all. Seems to me, me, me and me there’s no conundrum here. You feel a bit tense, a bit terse. I can help with that. Being me, you know I can.”

He reached for the Other’s damp brown head, stretching out his arms with a sweetness on his face that his duplicate could only describe as… a kiss of apple grass mingled with banana and the universally-favoured aroma of Earth-Solian bread baking. Then there was a faint scent of cookies, and candy, and pie, and… Oh yes, the Doctor could lay on the pheromones when he wanted to… using those gene-enhanced Gallifreyan talents… but the Other knew it wasn’t just another goad, knew the genuine, honest welcome in it like he knew the mole between his shoulder blades.

“Stop reading my mind, you chaff. And as for us, we both know why you consulted Six.”

“We never consulted Six about anything, none of us, till we needed to yesterday. He was mad as a loon and more dangerous than a weeping angel on a bender.”

Suddenly the Doctor looked down, his eyes vacant.

The Other knew that look; a classic -I am remembering, thinking too hard about something and amusing myself at the same time… - look. Was He worried about something? Why mention Six? Their Sixth incarnation had been so worm-eaten, so…

Wait a moment... all at once he shoved his eyebrows to the ceiling and turned to stare, mock-pouting over his shoulder every few minutes at a certain bemused Time Lord with a happy little sparkle in His eye.

“You were upset. I got an idea about the crazy from talking with Six. Feel better?”

“Almost, you old fool, almost. You got me to say We! You got me to say Us. Course I’m gonna feel better! Can we get on with it?”

The Other smiled across his own gritted teeth and then held out his hand. “The feeling better, I mean? Speaking of being depressed, my erm… external drive is humming, overheating something awful.”

His fingers may have ghosted across his groin, but his eyes never strayed from the only other set of eyes in the room. “This… this will be different won’t it? You all right for this, Old Man?”

The Doctor sighed, looked down, and began to pick away the parts of his clothing he would no longer need, watching as his doppelganger pinched his own hardening nipples idly through the tight white tee shirt he’d thrown him, as if he could force his very human bits to stop needing release for any real length of time. The poor bastard… it was going to be a while before he was truly adjusted to being finite, in the sense that he was completely finite, now, as opposed to before.

“Why don’t I take a look under the chassis? Perhaps there’s a loose wire.”

He let the Other undo his brown pinstripe pants with wet white teeth and those moist, thin lips that dripped with anxious froth.

The Other gasped as the bottoms of those pinstripes slipped away, sucked in a breath. “This would be… considered… quite odd by our Solian friends, right now, but nonetheless, I thank you for the opportunity,” he managed, “… and want… most fervently for you to know… that I am not… not entirely angry with you for leaving Rose with me that… day on the beach. She said she always knew she wouldn’t have us forever… guess, guess she… wanted… to move on, either that, or… knew she… had to. I had her body buried in Japan… It was so strange, her dying. I buried her in our favorite spot and then I just… I had to get away.”

The Gallifreyan took his partly human double’s spiky head and rested the oftentimes destitute mess against his naked torso, running long slender fingers over and under and through and between, connecting, protecting, seeking to disinfect his new one-hearted not quite pet from all the horror of creation.

“If you want a tree to grow the way you want it to, you must plant it yourself.”

He paused, taking a breath as the Other took His manhood into his mouth and gave a little convulsive shake with the cold of Him as the Doctor bucked sweetly, then carefully released the desired fluid down His charge’s hungry gullet.

“And even then, my dear boy, there are always surprises. Do tell me if you become tired. We both know you can’t possibly fatigue me, so don’t worry. Even if you make me pregnant. You need a reprieve, and this is your moment. Relax!”

The Other’s eyes bulged at this; -Even if he… what? What?- still, the Old Man had a point. It was no longer fitting to call Him his older self, being only months old. It felt so very strange, having a different set of animal normalities forced upon him by his very bones, his blood, his traitor genes. Oh yes, he reasoned, as his mouth migrated over the Doctor’s slim bony thighs; he’d always been a dessert first man, before this, this separation. Strange how so many evolved species couldn’t understand that sex could be made enjoyable without causing harm; in his own case, especially, he relished the Doctor’s patience with him, the sympathy and understanding that radiated from the man despite himself. He himself would never be able to comfort someone with that same skill, again… mentally, physically, spiritually. So he savoured the taste of each moment between breaths, and just… fell away.


	2. -

The Doctor hauled his part human self completely out of the water, smacked him on the ear, then lay down beside him, his lines calm, his body soothing; his flesh reeked of the pleasure he could yield and be given.

He waited as his not quite counterpart drifted on the waves of uncompleted ecstasy, watching as his animal nature came to full bear in that rapturous, dangerous piece of him that had been discarded, like a reptiliform limb, cut off, only to regrow again, leaving the stump traumatized and shockful, to contemplate whilst it lays dying.

“Had enough yet, my dear?” he prodded, poking the Other with a long male toe on a longer male foot until the man stopped groaning and blinked.

“Stop? Why? How could I let go of… of this? How could… ”

The Other gaped; how could he have done… what was the meaning of… what the hell is your probl… damn he hated answering his own questions before he could ask them.

“You, you… you bloody rotten old goat! How dare you cure us of Rose without me knowing it!”

Then the partially human male set upon the Time Lord, teeth bared, gnashing, licking his lips as he rose to a crouch in a savage, graceful arch and began to seethe, tripping over himself as he groped for the Doctor, who saw no reason to avoid him.

“Heavens! I said I’d get you to relax for your health and I meant it. Are you coming in or am I coming out… again?” said the Time Lord, inclining his body in graceful, albeit highly suggestive, lines. Then he tossed his sonic into the air and caught it repeatedly, throwing deep, brown, pool boy eyes with entirely too much sparkle in them at the Other’s arse.

The Other scowled as he thought of licking… things. He would never have had these thoughts in a million years if he’d been the proper Doctor; yet here they both were, -well at least he knew –he—was doing and thinking and wanting and needing these… things.

“Y’know,” he said flatly as he reached out to touch the Doctor’s forehead, brushing a strand of wild brown hair from His pale temple, “one could almost postulate a certain gain in this for you, Doctor… ”

The Doctor wriggled out from under his counterpart’s fingers, then reached down to grasp the man’s hardening length. “Do you approve of my technique? I’m no expert in homosexual relations, but I did sleep in a Holida-

A hand clasped over his mouth, while another pulled him down for a quick, sloppy kiss that left him grinning.

“Don’t say that. Isn’t there a copyright on stupid commercials about slightly overrated yet strangely relaxing hotels?”

Ancient fingers found the Other’s chin, touching again those lips that were no longer his own, but some other man’s. 

“I shall never again hear Pachelbel with those lips,” he murmured sweetly, feeling the familiar native mouth, tasting with his fingers the wine of gentle prelude that precluded every courtship. 

Then he leaned in for a lingering kiss of his own, pressing his mouth like a rose petal against the pearly glisten of the Other’s feminine pucker. 

The Other tried to speak, at first, to cry out with collected anticipation, but instead found the Doctor’s fingers in his mouth to be much tastier a notion. Thoroughly wet now, he savoured the flavor of Time Lord flesh, wanting and needing more of the boar as exquisite kisses made their way across his only virgin shore. With Rose, he had been so happy. She had been what he’d needed. But she could never have pleasured him like this. And damn the worlds, that had somehow become all right.

Then the Doctor slid around so he could bottom, always with one hand around the Other’s waist.

They fell into space then, back into the pool. Under the glass-like water. 

“Hina at Home in the River, obviously,” the Other said, loosely holding the Doctor by the arms as he traced letters into the Time Lord’s stomach with his rather engorged phallus, “… and I’m the coconut husk. Well, I suppose it could be worse.”

The Old Man smiled at his counterpart through the lines of water as they cut across his face.

“So! You –do- know how to read!”

The Other snarled and pulled the full Time Lord close, going down on him, ravenous as he pulled him to the pale pool bottom with a feral kiss as though the man were some especially irritating bit of flotsam. 

“Irritating flotsam, am I?” said the Doctor, shoving his legs apart to reveal his own readiness, phallus upraised to reveal the perfect hollow for spending a dizzy afternoon beneath its mellow height, “… ready when you are.”

“Cosmic Egg, indeed. Let’s see you outlast me, then, Theta Sigma. Or shall I call you Thete, now that we’re properly re-acquainted?” 

The Time Lord said nothing, content as he was to wait, so the Other poked the Doctor’s belly with his instrument, smoothly tracing still more ancient letters, -poetry this time- over that thin tow line of hairs until he found what he was looking for. He prodded, brushing his weeping member across the tight maw until he felt something ease apart, allowing him. Then something was playing at –his- opening too, so he relaxed himself, allowing the Doctor inside him.

“Pipe cleaners are long for a reason,” said the Doctor, arching a little to ease the Other into thrusting, “I do hope you get all the hard to reach… places. I certainly will! Haha!”

He lifted suddenly, arching into the Other just as the Other arched. Legs encircled thighs and legs encircled thighs as they moved, exploring more of each other with each thrust.

The Doctor’s were slow and steady, his hips bucking easily against the Other’s sucking body; the Other tried to match him, but one heart could not keep it up, and so he was forced to speed up at the last, driving and driving until he felt rather than saw the Time Lord close his eyes and sink completely to the pearly bottom of the grand pool. Was he tired? 

They pulled apart briefly, just long enough for them both to get out of the water. 

With a smirk as he rose from the pool, the Doctor took a moment to dry off, then backed himself against the nearest wall.

“Now that I’m physically touching the TARDIS again, we should be able to continue this all night, theoretically, of course,” he murmured, casting come hither eyes at his duplicate. 

Having dried off a bit more slowly than the Old Man because of his half human nature, the Other waved the Doctor off at first, then, patting himself, he smirked back, once more baring his penis to the air again. With a languid flourish, he impaled the Time Lord’s swollen sex, hoping for stars, or fireworks or something. 

Again and again he thrust, certain that each time he’d created a microcosm that would grow and thrive. 

After countless tries, finally! He could feel something curling deep inside. Doubtless the Doctor was feeling it too. At least, he hoped so. 

His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the Doctor raise a hand to his belly just as he raised his to his own. 

“That was… different,” he said softly, easing out of the Time Lord’s body and taking an unsteady step back. It wasn’t a lie. He was knackered.

The Time Lord, meanwhile, simply patted both their bellies and threw his duplicate a small smile as he tossed one hand over the younger man’s shoulder and guided him to his own bedroom, which had conveniently appeared in the hall just to the left of the pool. There, he laid the man out on the bed, bent to swing his feet round, then tucked him in. 

“Now go to sleep. And stay horizontal. I don’t need to, but you, now, just do as I say. G’night then!”

Then he slipped out, ignoring the mumbles of “I’m not a child, damn it!” until they died away, replaced by healthy sleep sounds and dreams of sugar plums.

As he reached the door to his own room, he sighed and placed a hand over his stomach.

“Sugar plums, indeed,” he said to his not so empty TARDIS, “Been too long without this feeling.”

He slipped in and shut the door quietly behind him. Then he laid himself out on the bed, crossed his feet under a light blanket and let the lull of the TARDIS engines sink into him.

Sugar plums, indeed.


	3. -

“Wilf?”

Feeling a sudden tap on his shoulder where he sat in the booth, Wilfred Mott turned round; nobody said his name quite that way, ‘cept Him. That wonderful man.

Immediately his eyes went to it, the small bulge that showed on the Time Lord’s waist.

“You all right? Oh, good lord. Is that what I think it is, son? Has Donna seen you?”

The Time Lord sighed, then smiled as he slid himself into the seat opposite his adopted father. 

“I rather think not, da. I’m wearing a device that hides my presence from her. It’s keyed to her specifically. No more cock ups, for my part. Now, you said something about… ”

As Wilf held his breath, the Doctor reached over, grabbed his hand and placed it over the warm lump under his unbuttoned suit. 

“My duplicate and I, we comforted each other, a few nights back. Now, we each have matching bumps to show off! Feels marvelous, really. Ought to do it more often.”

Wilf thought his eyebrows would float away, but he opened his mouth to try and speak, regardless.

“Son, I… what am I supposed to say? It’s lovely for you both, but… not really normal for us. Sure people can’t see you? And, oh!” 

The old human’s face paled as he felt something smack his hand from inside the Doctor’s body, and he cried out in surprise as the Doctor clasped his other hand on top of Wilf’s own.

“’s all right, Wilf. She’s just kicking. And I know what you’re thinking, Wilfred Mott. What about the radiation poisoning? Well, that’s what this little thing is for. See?”

He held up a hand, baring the small silver band on his ring finger to the light.

“It’s a bio-stasis field generator; Its term of influence extends to just about the time my brother and I are due to give birth, about three or four months from now, Earth time. See? It calculates out. I’ll have to be quick about the birth though; these things are notoriously picky about shut off dates. 

Wilf was beside himself; his adoptive alien son and his clone were pregnant by each other! And his Doctor was having a daughter! He’d have a granddaughter! He’d have to ask what sex the Other’s child was, but well, long as they were both all right and safe, it was fine by him.

“Which bundle’s the Other havin, then, love? Do you two need any help?” 

The Time Lord’s long fingers held his belly as he laughed, “Oh, Wilf, you’re adorable! Listen, I don’t need anything from you if you can’t give it. But, if you can, I want to see you in front of the old Dorrit’s and Ives at 12:30 sharp tomorrow. Can you manage? That chip shop’s been closed for years. It’s just where I’ve parked the TARDIS. No one will notice you when you enter her, if that’s the reason for the face I see you’re wearing now.”

Wilf scrubbed his face with his hands, feeling all his stubble and beard with new fingers.

“No, no, heavens! I hear you, son, I hear you. It’s just… a bit overwhelming, is all! You two are my sons now, you hear? And… you’ve gone and gotten yourselves… oh this is just too much! I’m off my gourd happy, I am! I’ll be there!”

And he was.

\---

Wilf looked at his watch.

The thick LCD display read 12:30 from a wide slab of silvery metal. He smiled as the green-painted door of the old shop opened up, revealing the console room of the TARDIS. 

He dusted off the doors, then went inside.

“In here, Wilfred! The Other will be along shortly!” came the Doctor’s voice from somewhere close. 

Wilf sighed and trundled forward, grinning at everything again as if for the first time while he navigated a short white corridor, then made a right turn and sat a nice little booth which seemed inviting.

Before long, the Doctor appeared, wearing another unbuttoned suit jacket, this one another brown with pinstripes.

Swiftly, the Time Lord snapped his fingers quietly, and soon there was steaming tea on the table, and a basket of chips in front of Wilf. On top of the chips, there was a nice bit of cod, perfectly fried in a golden battery crust. It even had the little extra bits of fried batter he loved.

“Doctor? You look thin. Shouldn’t you be enjoying some of this, in your state? Goodness, in both your… states?”

Suddenly a newer voice, slightly… -beside- the Doctor’s in tonal range, came from somewhere behind the booth. 

“Don’t overwhelm the poor man, Doctor,” said the Other flatly, appearing from a new door with a toothbrush in his mouth, “… I think he likes toying with people. In fact, I know he does.” 

He took his stomach in hand and grinned madly, his eyes mirroring his mouth.

“Oh yes, do try not to have a coronary, Wilfred. Being half Donna, I tend to get all nest-y when the hormones come on. And, as I know you are wondering what led up to this,” he waved a sweeping hand toward his own pregnancy, then flicked his fingers toward the Doctor, who had just re-appeared with a small list in one hand, “… we have agreed to think of it as therapy. Kind of funny, really.”

Wilf gagged, choking loudly on a bite of fish. The Doctor and the Other both were behind him in a moment, beating on his back and massaging his throat.

“Choking is prohibited! We should put up a sign,” said the Doctor softly, digging in his jacket pocket for a napkin, which he dragged out after he set the note he’d brought down on the table in front of Wilf.

Wilf looked at the note; considered it. Then he looked at the Doctor and the Other, each holding their bellies like scared virgins.

“I… I can’t just eat while the two of you stand there looking ill. Maybe you two should go have a nice lie down? Gills a bit green, yeah?”

The Doctor looked at the Other; the Other looked at the Doctor. Then there was smirking and glaring, and a bit too much nonverbal debate.

“Oh, don’t mind us, Wilfred,” said the Time Lord, shoving his hand away from his body.

He sat down across from Wilf, just as he had done a few days past, and gestured for the duplicate to join him. The small booth automatically grew out from every side, the TARDIS seeking to accommodate their girth, and before Wilf could protest, they each had a teacup in hand and were staring at him, grinning like loons.

“Now look here, I really think you ought to take a breather, the both of you! Come on, you wouldn’t upset an old man, eh? Always wanted boys, besides. Not that I minded Syl and Donna, oh no, sirs! I just… it feels nice, what you called me. I’d be honored if you’d both do me the courtesy of taking a bit of a kip, if only to please an old fool.” 

A collective sigh, and both aliens rose from their seats, tea to lips, rinse and repeat.

“I like a man who knows how to bargain, Wilf! Very nicely done! My real father couldn’t bargain his way out a barrel of Plycaciean sardines.”

Just then, the proper Doctor reached over, right across his own face, pressed his fingers to his duplicate’s cheek and gripped a bit of the skin there. Then he twisted, a wan and satisfied smile erupting over his whole being, whereupon Wilfred Mott, upon seeing this, froze in his seat with a bite of nice flaky cod halfway to his mouth. 

“Wilf?” the full Time Lord murmured gently, his deep milk chocolate eyes melting wider, hanging there, brownish irises dripping with the slightest hint of cinnamon apprehension, “… you all right love?”

The old man was quick to recover himself, setting his fork down with a clang as he cocked his head at the two aliens he called son. 

“Oh, you two’ll be the death of me! Now go and get some rest. You look poorly.”

Another soft laugh pounced from the Other’s mouth, while the Doctor just sighed and turned to the hallway.

“All right, Wilf. Eat your lunch! You’ll find that –my- fish and chips doesn’t clog your arteries like your primitive yet satisfying Earth food. Tastes the same, though. And before you nag, we’re going, we’re going!”

Then they went back down a corridor of the TARDIS, leaving their adoptive father to his tea and fish and chips. In their ears, the TARDIS sang merrily as she led them to their beds.

Wilf would fetch them the things on the list, and all would be well. 

And as each man settled himself in his bed, he thought to himself how very much worth it putting a grin on the old man’s face had been.


	4. -

It was equatorial noon –somewhere, at least- when the Other found him hunched over in an overstuffed Alice in Wonderland chair in the Library.

“So there you are,” said the Other softly as he came upon the cocoon of Time Lord curled up tight what looked to be thirteen blankets and a comforter, “… what’s all this Princess and the Pea rubbish, eh?”

No answer.

He thought a moment, then reached for the book clutched loosely in the long fingers he’d once owned exclusive rights to. To his surprise, when he took the book, no squeal of delight came from the mound of fake furs and microfibre snuggies. Merely a whimper issued from the Time Lord, and so the Other thought perhaps he ought to take off one of the blankets and have a look-see. Just to be safe.

“Hrm.. must have been a change in his core temperature…” he mumbled to himself as he snaked hands into the wreck of blankets and checked the Doctor’s pulses. “… but, wouldn’t the TARDIS regulate? And if she couldn’t, wouldn’t she inform me if the Doctor were having… oh good god. She can’t because I’m not. Oh good lord, rise and shine you bloody great lump, before I pull a Donna Noble and tear you a new one!”

Suddenly, he felt a belated, shallow sleep-breath on his face, felt something stir within the nest of pillows and blankets and microfibre coverings, and a cry died in his throat.

“What... oh, ‘allo, mini-me! Whaddya want? Got tired. Fell asleep.” Then those chocolate browns brightened, lighting up the darkness of the pile, and a gasp escaped their occupant. “Is it the children? Why didn’t you tell…”

The Other smiled sadly, nodding a frantic negative as he silently pushed the full Time Lord back into the pool of warming fabric. Then, he got down on a knee and steadied himself with an elbow on the chair, cupping the Doctor’s face with his unoccupied hands.

“Go back to sleep, you silly old thing. Everything’s fine.”

A quiet laugh, and then, “… ah. If you say so. Get some rest, you.”

With me anyway.

He left it unspoken, and soon, it wasn’t long before the Old Man was asleep again.

It was then he saw what had been hidden in the book, a dusty old hole. And the book-safe had a … the words were in Gallifreyan, the nuances of which he could no longer completely decipher because of his metacritical nature. But he could make out enough.

Bio-damper… designed… temporarily reduce… symptomology… fatal radioactivated stress in most humanoids…span of duration: six to nine months. Rate of error is two point seven six five weeks to four point nine eight three months. Margin is… too great for experimental trial; experienced temporal engineers and regeneration specialists only…

“Got you now, you silly old tuck,” he whispered as he stepped back just enough so that he could watch the Doctor shiver and snore in his sleep. With a sigh, he reached for the nest of bedcovers and drew them closer around the full Time Lord’s waist before pulling his own coat around himself in sympathy.

Then he started to sing to the child in his belly, patting and cooing as he helped himself to one of the other big chairs.

“… words can’t bring me down... ”


	5. -

“Partridge in a pear tree, right sons? Me sons?” said Wilf softly as he climbed up the little ladder that had suddenly appeared beside the stubby tree.

The Doctor sighed and scratched his head, and then they both turned to look at the Other, who was happily rummaging through all the things Wilfred had managed from the list.

“What do you think about this one?” the Other said, fixating as he picked up a small yellow Alice dress made for infants, then pinched it in both hands as if it would float away on wings. Soon he was holding the tiny piece of lacy cotton up to the light, grinning madly, his eyes squinting with joy and bright as a child’s on Christmas morning.

“Don’t fall, Wilfred,” the full Time Lord admonished meekly from his large wingback chair, wincing bodily as the human ascended step on the small three-step stool. 

“Oh, I’m all right, Doctor!” the old man called down with a merry face, smiling as he took a gold star out of his pocket and perched it lopsidedly atop the waiting tree, “It’s quite a lovely tree, I think, don’t you, with all those little bluish needles…”

But then- the crease in the rug. The wrinkle in the fabric that kept growing and growing, spreading out in jagged waves around the rounded foot of the plastic stool…

The stool scootched closer to the tree, tipping like a cow as Wilfred reached for a glass angel on the far right of a gangly blue-needled limb. His green stocking foot was raising, even as his festive reindeer hat wiggled on his fuzzy white head, then fell off, catching on a bare ear.

“Wilfred!” the Doctor cried, rushing out of the chair too fast and falling back into the plump seat with his eyes shut tight and his hand clasped against his face so he wouldn’t have to see, because he was too weak to move fast enough. It was simply a fact.

“He’s okay, Wilfred’s all right now. Come down off it, love!” said the Other softly, rubbing the Doctor’s leg from where he sat on the floor. “We can see your veins, old thing.” he added, more under his breath than anything else as Wilfred came down off the stool and instantly had his hands out in front of the Doctor’s chair, wanting to touch but not sure what or how.

“Everybody’s right as roses now, old son! My old son! Come on, maybe we should get you lyin’ down, yeah, you stay horizontal for a while. That’s an order, from your f-father, sir! Please?” Wilf’s fingers had begun fiddling with the footrest release as he talked.

At first, the Doctor shivered, shying away from the contact, but then… old hands like blue cheese grabbed the Doctor’s shaking fingers. And the Time Lord gave in, leaning into their touch. And he began to sob, his lips quivering just as they’d done the first time, with Wilfred in the little eatery.

“ I won’t make it to New Years, Wilfred, beautiful Wilfred, I just won’t. It’s my genetics.” He let the old soldier hold him then. He couldn’t before, but now, now he could. So he did. “It’s just that, they’ve always been a bit dicky! ‘t’s not remotely fair! Especially not now that I’m…” Those chocolate browns fall like spectres over his belly and he sighs, allowing what’s coming to come. 

“You know, dad, I think I will have a lie-down. I’m sorry for ruining this for all of us… you probably have something to do with Sylvia and Donna and her man friend, yeah?”

The Doctor held up a pinkie finger in protest, but then the Other’s loud ‘Ow!’ made him hang mid-waggle.

“Um, really now, there’s no need for.. ow. That. Just keep talking and having your little moment, you two. I’ll ah, be having the baby, right here on the floor! No need to ah…ow… mind me at all!”

The grin on the man’s face made both the full Time Lord and the aging human grin despite themselves. 

“On second thought, yes. Do help me please. There goes my first water!”

“Riiight. Idiot. Up you go, to the Medical Bay. Up. Now.” said the Doctor, brown eyes wide on the Metacrisis’ heaving stomach muscles. He slid out of his chair and down onto the floor to give the half-Time Lord a hand up as best he could with his rad-weakened structures.

But the Other was shaking his head like an old grandmother as his legs bent under his squatting body. He’d already got his trousers off; Poor Wilfred was circling like a misfit toy, feeling useless.

“Welcome to America!” grumbled the full Time Lord as his duplicate bore down on his fingers with a glare of death to rival Jackie Tyler’s. With his hand pressed over the Other’s mounded stomach, he called instructions to the TARDIS telepathically to ready a pool, just in case, but he spoke aloud to their human friend, whose reddening eyes were full of tears and blinking wildly. “Wilfred get towels! The TARDIS will show you.”

Who could tell how much time would pass in a ship like herself? But Mister Mott tottered quickly out the door and down the hallway, as the Other’s shrieks of, “I’ll show you AMERICA, you rutting BASTAAAAAAARD!” followed him down the way to the storage closet. How nice of the Old Girl to give him neon lights all the way down to the end.


	6. -

The Metacrisis bore down. The Metacrisis bared his teeth. The Metacrisis dug his clean white nails into the flesh of the Doctor’s fist. The man had blood running down his forearm in little red-orange rivulets, but it wasn’t from him. The Time Lord’s knuckles were blanched the color of frozen fish.

“Is it… hurting you? Am I hurting… you?” he managed, as the Doctor withdrew more and more air from the aether in short bursts, rather than in regular breaths. Then he had to take a breath himself, as his lower body pulled him down in another deep contraction of his uterine stria.

“My nails are too long! I just cut myself!” the Doctor rasped, sounding short. “Shut up and concentrate on your blowing, you shop-loving pansy!”

“Knockhead!”

“Cranium in Absentia!”

“No argument there! Answer the question!”

“Yes, it’s hurting me all right? Happy now?”

“Molto bene. Oh god I can feel the…”

“…that’s.. that’s good, just keep… keep…”

“Doctor?”

“…pushing. Yeah…keep…”

The Doctor’s head lolled. The white of saliva, balled at the corners of his mouth, dropped like a stone to the 5th century Jin Dynasty rug. But the faded colors of the weave had already been stained with dark vermillion, the deep tissue let of birth blood. As the Other strained through another contraction, the lanyard beneath the Doctor’s shirt began to beep. 

Beep.

Beep.

Beep-beep.

Beep-beep.

Beep-beep-beep!

“WILFRED!” the Other screamed, one hand on his heaving abdomen, the other on the Doctor’s shirt, helping him to stay sitting up. But he’d forgot that he only had two hands, and ended up smacking backward into the blood-soaked rug. He couldn’t sit up again. Two hearts, one baby and an unconscious knockhead had taken care of that. He was too tired. “Wilfred! Wilfred, Wilf-red, Wilf-red, Wilf-re-he-he-heddddd! Please…”

Then his body heaved beneath him, and he felt something pass in a mess of fluids. 

He lay on his back, sifting through the events of the past few minutes. His baby girl cried somewhere vaguely to the left of his right thigh. He could feel her wiggling, wriggling in space. She was trying to find him. 

Heaving himself up, he sighed and reached out to scoop up her steaming little pink body. His nethers felt absent and entirely too warm, as though one of Rassilon’s bowships had driven through a hole too big for its breeches. It had, really. The baby wanted to suckle his swollen teat, but his navel was as far as he could raise her. He was just too weak.

Whiteness.

A sudden tugging flooded his senses, and suddenly he was on his feet, standing in the hall and looking down the way for Wilfred. He must have fainted with his daughter still clinging to his chest, the hard, fat rose of his nipple secured by her mouth. 

Just as a shadow plodded toward the Other, he squealed and fell against the wall. Soon, something tore free of his womb and plopped down, a blueberry twisty cord thing and a quivering lump of body-jelly. “Oh, right-the afterbirth and the umbilical,” he murmured to himself, letting his head slide down a bit more. 

“Dear lord in heaven, sweetheart!” Wilfred called out, dropping his towel and juice-box covered tray and cupping his hands on the white, half-human face he saw smushed against the white hallway wall. The silver tray clanged on the floor, spilling a three-dee puddle of fluffy white terry and gray generic boxes full of nutritious juice.

"'m okay, Daddy-o, but yew sha' gogetim and givvim summadat jooce!" muttered the Other as he bit his lip and slipped down a little further, then pushed back up with a shuddered breath.  
He waved Wilfred on, smacking the old man feebly on the head until the poor thing got the message and clambered away back to the library.

“Wilforid!” the Metacrisis yelled drowsily as he stooped to pick up a grey juice box and tossed it down the hall, “Catchis, yew’ll needit!” Then he wrapped both arms around the baby and sank to the floor, seeing no more reason to remain standing.


	7. -

  
 “Gave you the good silver, did she?” the Doctor croaked as Wilfred poked the juice box straw through the little white bit then held it to his mouth. “Old Girl, can you… can you get rid of the mess? I don’t want Wilfred to slip…”

The library candles dimmed, their flames popping into near-darkness for a half-second. Then when the light returned, the fluid and all the stains on the rug were gone.

“Ah, thank you, TARDIS love, you good old thing! I’m really grateful, I am! I am. Our boys here, they need us, really need us now.” Wilfred murmured out loud, then reached to rub the armchair the Doctor had left vacant.

The lights blinked again, flickers on the wall in answer, like unseen seabirds coasting off a cliff before they dive.

Clink, clink.

Bumpp-slip.

Rolllll.

A sleek gurney rolls in, sidles up to the Doctor then collapses quickly, like a windfall from nowhere.

“That would be the TARDIS,” says the Doctor as he eases himself onto the gurney with Wilfred’s supporting arm behind him.

Then the gurney rises up again and rolls alongside Wilfred down the hall.

As they passed the still-unconscious Other, the Doctor flopped a hand down and thwacked him on the head, saying, “Oi, you there! Wakey-wakey! We’re off to see Toy Canoe Land.”

“Oh, you two! Be nice!” said Wilfred, ruffling the Doctor’s hair.

Then the Other woke up to the sound of the gurney wheeling by, and wobbled after them into Medical.

By the time he had managed the door, the Doctor was already writhing slowly on one of the empty beds, moaning in his sleep.

“The scanner-thing… it gave my poor boy a sedative methinks, eh son?” the old man ventured, worry having long since crept up behind his wrinkles and taken root.

The Other sighed, then heaved himself up onto another of the beds and settled his daughter in the well-padded small-humanoid stasis crate that had popped out of the side of the bed. It slid in with her, leaving him alone with the slow-roasting Time Lord and the elderly human. He smiled at both of them, then pulled back the covers on his own bed and slid his naked feet in.

“Go home, Wilfred,” he murmured, softly considering the tired, red slant of the old man’s gaze. “I can take care of things now.” He looked down through the one-way viewer at his baby, who was happily drowsing away in the cubby hole. “It looks like we all could do with a bit of rest.”

Wilfred Mott looked deflated as he reached out to touch the Other’s arm. “Are you sure, son? I got stuff to do at home, sure, but, I could stay, if you want. If you need me! I won’t leave you if you need me.”

But the Other just smiled and grabbed Wilfred’s arm and squeezed. “You’re near hysterics, dear Wilfred, my sweetheart. Go on to your girls and your grandson-in-law. Go on! Get some nice brandy and some proper dinner in you. And don’t forget your reindeer hat! If Sylvia asks, tell her the truth, that I’ve just given birth and the Doctor is probably dying. It’s what Donna would have done, you know it, I know it. Now scootch! Shift your bum!”


	8. Chapter 8

“Go home, Wilfred,” he murmured, softly considering the tired, red slant of the old man’s gaze. “I can take care of things now.” He looked down through the one-way viewer at his baby, who was happily drowsing away in the cubby hole. “It looks like we all could do with a bit of rest.” 

Wilfred Mott looked deflated as he reached out to touch the Other’s arm. “Are you sure, son? I got stuff to do at home, sure, but, I could stay, if you want. If you need me! I won’t leave you if you need me.” 

But the Other just smiled and grabbed Wilfred’s arm and squeezed. “You’re near hysterics, dear Wilfred, my sweetheart. Go on to your girls and your grandson-in-law. Go on! Get some nice brandy and some proper dinner in you. And don’t forget your reindeer hat! If Sylvia asks, tell her the truth, that I’ve just given birth and the Doctor is probably dying. It’s what Donna would have done, you know it, I know it. Now scootch! Shift your bum!” 

With a big smile worthy of any child hiding something, the Other watched Wilfred go, certain that he was avoiding the old man’s imminent heart attack at what was about to happen. 

Little gold flickers of light were spilling from the Doctor’s mouth, more and more every time he breathed- it wouldn’t be long. He reached down, wiggled his fingers inside the Doctor’s open hand, held him, and waited.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Hold on, Doctor, hold on!” the Other rasped, his throat raw from coughing out orders to the TARDIS. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the Doctor’s, he could see the white under the skin. 

An oxygen mask dangled overhead, ready and anxious, jerking softly to the left or right every time the Doctor stirred in what was left of the sleep he’d drifted during the past few hours. It swung every time he moved, too- not that he did much besides wipe the Doctor’s forehead and fret himself to death biting the nails of his free hand. 

“Stop that, you’ll get rabies…” muttered a sleepy voice from the medical bed. 

The Other fell off his chair. 

“I’ll get white hairs from this, you wanker,” he groaned, reaching to wipe more sweat from the Doctor’s pale face, now blotchy with rad burns, “Is the baby showing signs?” 

The Doctor shook his head, his eyes half-closed but bright in the dimmed artificial lights. 

“He’s… okay,” the Doctor murmured, blinking sleepily for a moment. “Although I wonder if my kidneys are going to be…” 

The Other looked down at the Doctor, brows furrowing in alarm. 

“They going then, eh? You should induce.” 

The Doctor grinned up at him, squirming a little under the chilling blankets as a snake of pain wormed its way under his skin, sprouting another red blister somewhere. 

“Yep. Wanna break out the fandolls and flags?” 

The Other chuckled, briefly, before squeezing the Doctor’s hand in his. 

“I’ll get the good sherry, then. And Wilf?” 

The Doctor nodded, and then his eyes slid closed. 

With the Doctor sleeping, the Other went out into the console room, walked out the doors, and reached round for the outside telephone. Then he dialed Wilf’s number. 

“Well, Dad,” he sighed into the receiver when he heard the click of the answering machine, “… the Doctor’s not given birth yet, but his control is slipping, and the radiation is seeping into his bones- it won’t be long before the baby is affected. So I’m about to do something monumentally stupid. So go on- eat your Weetabix and forget about us. Think of your sanity.”


	10. Chapter 10

Sylvia stood there for a moment, staring at the machine next to her bed. 

“Dad!” she called out, rifling through her drawers for a pair of scissors, “the Doctor just called. Said something about doing something stupid. As if anything that man does is sane. Are you listening to me, Dad?” 

“What did he say, Sylvia? What words did he use?” Wilfred cries, bounding into his daughter’s bedroom and grabbing her shoulders for a quick squeeze. 

“What words did he… what are you on about? I can’t have you running off to that man every time he calls and says jump! Worse than Donna, you are! At his beck and call all hours of the night… worst timing that man, he has. Tell you that for free…Now, listen, Dad, I need you to stop gallivanting off…” 

Wilfred had already slunk away after she turned back to her drawer to find the scissors, murmuring to himself, his shaking fingers fiddling with the hems of his coat pockets.


	11. Chapter 11

The Other waited for the knock on the TARDIS doors, having asked the ship to move the medical bay even closer to the main console room. 

Four little knocks, and a scritching sound outside- Wilfred’s shoes on the gravel. 

The Other went to the TARDIS entry, reached for the wood… and stopped, leaning his head against the double doors. Then he pushed them open to let Wilfred Mott inside. And there the old man was, frost forming on his red-rimmed eyelashes, wearing thick gloves under old stained oven mitts, as if he planned to bake a turkey rather than help an old friend deliver a baby. 

“It was cold, sir,” Wilfred muttered sadly, huddled in the blast of heat from the open TARDIS doors, “and Sylvia was cross and my gloves were in the laundry and… she got the message.” 

Then the old man slapped the Other lightly on the shoulder and winked at him, just as the half-Time Lord gave an involuntary shiver at the thought of Sylvia getting that desperate plea. 

“It’s all right love, she got it all right, but she was too busy goin’ after her shears to notice, not that she would have, my Sylv,” Wilfred added, with a grim look at the too-close door of the medical bay just across the room, “how is me old son now, eh? And the baby? Do we have the baby yet? His baby?” 

The Other sagged suddenly, just for an instant, then rose up again, straight and perky and caffeinated as ever. 

“You know, Wilfred, it won’t be long now. And I need you to do something for me,” he breathed, smiling those wet chocolate eyes at the old man, “I need you to remember me to Harold Square in there, all right? You do that for me, Wilfred? There is only one thing to be done, at this point.” 

Wilfred hung on the Other’s arm, wide eyes fiercely leaking. 

“No! no you don’t… but if… if it’s… you’ll still be in the TARDIS, right? Saved, like one of those iCloud… things?” 

The Other just smiled, as a plop of liquid hitting the floor issues from the medical room, and the sound a baby crying filled the TARDIS in peals of Christmas bells. 

“Think of it as returning a borrowed library book, Wilfred. Bye, Dad!” 

Then the Other walked into the medical room, and the room shone suddenly with golden light. 

“Oh my god, that was insane! And I have long hair! I’m a girl! And speaking of girls, I am filthy. Need a bath. And no, I still have a… I’m naked. And wet. Oh, did I just… what is that? Is that my… baby? Baby! Oh my. Wilfred, is that you? I could use a hand!” a new voice gasped, soft, boisterous. Ancient. Adorable. Like a puppy in a bowtie. 

Wilfred scrubbed his head with his oven mittened fingers, grinned to himself, and walked inside.

 

END


End file.
